


The Laws of Amour

by damtoti



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Making Out, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8614516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damtoti/pseuds/damtoti
Summary: It's France's birthday, so naturally he invites a few friends over for a raunchy game of Spin the Bottle. Unfortunately for Germany, all kisses must be French kisses, and unfortunately for Romano, there are no cop outs once the bottle has selected its intended victim. De-anon from the kink meme.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bonus was "Germany has to kiss Romano (sorry, as an Itacest shipper I can't pass this opportunity) Veneziano suddenly gets jealous but not of Romano as he thought he would but of Germany)", and also the main reason I couldn't pass up the request.

“I-It might just be the angle. It’s probably pointing at Veneziano!”

“Huh? But it definitely seems to be pointing at you, Romano,” Spain says unhelpfully.

Germany is both surprised and relieved Romano hasn’t yet fallen into hysterics, but he isn’t any more comfortable with the arrangement, and the red flush spreading across his cheeks might even rival Romano’s. “I… I need to use the bathroom!”

France tuts softly. “Such a shame. I suppose the rest of us must await your return. One of us in particular.” He smirks at Romano, who instantly averts his gaze.

Germany looks to Veneziano for help, who, appearing as baffled as Germany, shrugs his shoulders. “I guess it’s okay with me. After all, it’s France’s birthday, and it’s just a little kiss.”

“Sixty seconds or they start over,” corrects Prussia. He rubs his palms together, snickering. “Oh man, _this_ is what I came here for. Not those pansy, romantic kisses.”

Prussia shoots an accusing look France’s way. Through some miracle the first few matches have been relatively tame. France spun the bottle first, naturally, and made out with Spain for longer than the required time, while everyone else looked away uncomfortably and tried to ignore the moans. Then Veneziano matched with Germany, which was cute if you didn’t factor in the way Romano was eyeing Germany’s back as if sizing up the best stabbing points. There was a brief moment of awkwardness as England attempted to kiss Portugal. And then Spain had matched up with France again, and…that transpired pretty much the same as the first time.

“Shut up,” Romano mutters. “There’s no way in hell I’m kissing that ugly potato Frankenstein.”

“Hey, that’s my handsome younger brother you’re talking about!”

“Why don’t _you_ kiss him if you like him so much?”

“Maybe I will!”

“Everyone, please! Calm down!” France claps his hands, although he hasn’t stopped leering at both Germany and Romano, somehow simultaneously, despite them being seated at opposite sides of the circle. “As it is my birthday, I expect you all to respect the laws of _amour_ , as chaotic as they may appear at first glance. Unless, of course, you are willing to make up for it later tonight, privately, _with me_.”

He winks at both Romano and Germany in turn. Germany swallows. Romano might punch him after this, but suddenly that seems more appealing than France’s secondary option.

Romano seems to be thinking along the same lines. “Ugh, goddammit. Fine! At least Germany won’t taste like burnt _scones_!”

England clears his throat.

“Yeah, Germany is an okay kisser, if you ignore his stiff tongue!” Veneziano chimes in.

“Thank you, Veneziano,” Germany mumbles, trying to ignore Prussia’s cackle beside him.

“Well then, do both parties agree?” France asks.

“I suppose so,” Germany says with a sigh.

“Whatever,” Romano shrugs. “At the very least he can learn something from me and put Veneziano through less torment.”

“In that case, _please_ , go ahead. No need to be shy.”

Romano’s folds his arms against his chest, but at least he’s leaning forward. Germany inches closer, struggling to not look Romano directly in the eye…or make eye-contact with Veneziano, and also avoid acknowledging France and Prussia and possibly also Portugal’s snickering behind him.

He reaches forward cautiously to place one hand on Romano’s cheek, brushing away a strand of hair with his thumb, moving their faces closer, lips puckered, and—

“For fuck’s sake, if you’re trying to make this tender and romantic, _at least_ close your eyes!” Romano snaps.

“Sorr—” Germany begins, but he’s caught off guard when Romano pounces, one hand ripping at his hair and the other curled around his neck. Romano’s kissing him, pushing his tongue inside his mouth, and then his teeth graze over Germany’s lower lip and he _bites_ , and Germany lurches back.

Romano instantly slaps him. “What the hell, shithead? Now we have to start over!”

“I suppose I must restart the timer,” France sighs, though he doesn’t look at all disappointed.

Germany brushes his lip, frowning. At least it isn’t bleeding. “Why did you have to bite me?”

“I couldn’t help it. It’s hard enough to restrain myself from punching your stupid, ugly face!”

Germany sighs. This isn’t going to be easy, is it? He has no idea how Spain copes with these mood swings. “Okay, let’s try again.”

Romano exhales and scrunches his eyes shut. “Do your worst.”

“Do your _wurst_ , get it?” Prussia crows. He earns a chuckle from Veneziano.

Spain tilts his head to the side. “I don’t get it.”

“Everyone, shut up!” Romano snaps. “You’re making this harder!”

Once Romano’s eyes are shut again, Germany leans forward, letting his lids droop as well, though only halfway.  He doesn’t want to misaim and kiss Romano’s nose.

Their lips brush.  He feels Romano flinch, but to Germany’s relief, he doesn’t bite or slap him this time.  Germany parts his lips slightly, and feels Romano do the same.  Tentatively, he pokes his tongue out.  He can’t help but be wary about having it bitten off.

But Romano slips his tongue against his, appraising it, before allowing it to follow.  Romano clenches Germany’s bicep awkwardly for leverage as they tilt their heads, maneuvering themselves into the appropriate angles.  This should be easy considering all the times Germany’s kissed Veneziano, but Romano only two responses with him seem to be rough and dominant, or…stiff as a board.

_10, 11, 12, 13_

Germany attempts to count the seconds as he works his tongue around Romano’s, parting their lips only when he _really_ needs to breathe, because he doesn’t want to risk Romano slapping him a second time for the timer being restarted.

Closing his eyes, it’s a little easier to pretend Romano is sweet, gentle Veneziano, who won’t punch him in the face for the slightest infraction.

Romano grips his arm harder, digging his nails in, and the illusion crumbles.  Romano’s trying to shove his chest back, nearly wrestling his tongue.  It seems he’s given up ‘stiff as a board’ in favor of ‘rough and dominant’. He must be annoyed, although Germany can’t quite recognize what he’s doing wrong.  He’s following the exact procedure of tongue twists he read in the manual.

But if Romano wants to take charge, he supposes that’s alright.  He places one hand on Romano’s waist to leverage him as Romano leans up, almost on his knees, to better reach Germany’s mouth.  There’s a quick nip at his bottom lip, but luckily Germany expects it this time, and doesn’t break the kiss.

The timer dings.

“Woohoo! Go, West! Now try for an Italian threesome!  And don’t forget to invite me!”

“That wouldn’t be a threesome anymore, you arse,” England mutters.

Germany pulls away immediately, eyes wide in case Romano tries to slap him again. Thankfully, he doesn’t. Romano’s too busy trying to wipe off his tongue with his hand.  But that’s when Germany notices Veneziano staring. At both him and Romano. With a very odd expression.

Veneziano’s moods are normally easy to read, mainly because he doesn’t have much of a filter between what’s running through his head and what comes out his mouth. Joy, fear, and hunger are his main motivators, and occasionally sadness. Germany purses his lips nervously. Should he apologize? Veneziano gave his permission, after all. And he’s never given any indication of being the possessive type. Therefore, Germany skimmed through the jealousy section of his guidebook. He has no idea how to cope with this.

He’s interrupted from his dilemma when Romano gags loudly. “What the hell are you still doing here? I don’t want to smell your disgusting breath for longer than I have to!”

Oh, right. He’s still frozen inches away from Romano’s face. He shifts back hurriedly, casting a worried glance in Veneziano’s direction.

But Veneziano seems to have recomposed himself. He’s smiling, eyes wide and head bowed in that sweet expression he makes when he clearly wants something.

“Hey!” Veneziano chirps, “Can it be my turn again?”

“Eager, are we?” France chuckles.

Romano rolls his eyes. “You just went a few turns ago, dumbass. It’s Portugal’s turn. Then me, then Prussia.”

“Yeah, what gives? I didn’t get to make out with anyone yet!” Prussia whines.

“ _Pleeeeaaseeee_!”

Portugal shrugs. “Eh, he can take my turn. I’ve already made out with everyone here at some point or the other.”

Everyone other than France (who winks) looks away awkwardly while Prussia shrieks, “What, I thought I was special! Even you, West?”

Germany coughs, feeling his face heat up.

Thankfully, Veneziano takes the attention off him by taking hold of the bottle. “Yay! Thanks so much, Portugal! I’ll make out with you later if you feel left out!”

“As will I,” France smirks.

Veneziano hums contemplatively, and then nudges the bottle with one finger. “Wow, it’s you, Romano!”

“What the hell? You didn’t even spin it, idiot! Do it again!”

“ _Non_ , it was a bottle spun by his heart, and arrived at its destination accordingly,” France says. “Now, Romano. You must be aware of the rules by this point. As much as I hate to interfere with _amour_ , I will not complain if you choose to forfeit the current round in exchange for a sensual evening with yours truly.”

France unbuttons the collar of his shirt, and Romano shudders.

“Are all of you okay with this?” he spins around to glare at the rest of the circle, who all shrug. Except for Spain, who’s occupied with a nosebleed. And Germany, whose jaw is hanging loose. And Romano certainly isn’t going to _him_ for help.

“Fine, fine, whatever! Let’s get this over with!”

Veneziano doesn’t require any further agreement.

He grins, looking all too pleased with himself, and tilts his head to meet Romano’s. Romano catches the slightest glimpse of deviousness in his brother’s eyes before they flutter shut. His lips brush Romano’s, softly at first, slightly parted. His tongue nudges Romano’s, then retreats.

The room is silent. The timer only starts when the kiss turns open-mouthed, with France being the judge. The idea of France creepily observing them sends a shiver down Romano’s spine, but his brother isn’t Germany (or Spain), and he can’t punch him in the face due to slow progress.

Romano tugs at his brother’s curl, intending to convey a “get on with it, you fucking dumbass”, and presses his face closer, parts his mouth more intentionally. Veneziano’s arm wraps around his shoulder and they melt together. Veneziano’s tongue dances around his and slips into his mouth.

The timer ticks. Spain makes a hissing sound somewhat like a “squeee”, which is quickly hushed. Romano frowns, but refuses to pull away lest the timer be restarted, and they’re forced to give the rest of the circle a longer performance than intended.

And Romano has to admit, it isn’t so bad. His brother is definitely a better kisser than Germany.

After a few seconds it’s easy to drown out any noises around them and fall into Veneziano’s rhythm. He finds his hands wandering, as do Veneziano’s, down his back, caressing his hair, twirling _that curl_. He lets out a soft moan, and suddenly the floor is pushed against him—or rather, he’s halfway slumped on the floor, Veneziano straddled over him.

Their tongues glide over and around each other, breaking away every few seconds for them to breathe, swallow, but their lips never quite come apart. Veneziano’s lips are soft and plump against his. They’re united, and Romano feels Veneziano’s heat against him, hears the labored sound of his breathing, smells the subtle yet clean scent of his cologne.

_Ding!_

Veneziano pecks his lips one last time before he pulls away, panting. His gaze doesn’t leave Romano’s, who’s admittedly also out of breath. Their faces linger inches apart before Romano’s once again aware of the stares fixated on them. He shoves Veneziano off of him.

Veneziano topples back. Unperturbed, he crawls back to his place in the circle, and smiles innocently.

Romano pulls himself up and brushes off his shirt casually, avoiding eye-contact with Spain, and France, and Germany, and every other pervert in the room. Which is basically everyone. He returns to his spot at Veneziano’s side.

The room is silent.

Prussia is the first to pipe up. “Well, damn. I’m glad _some_ of us are having a good time. When do I get to make out with someone?”

This seems to break the spell.

Spain shuffles to his feet. “Um, France? I need to use your bathroom.”

“I’ll use the other one,” Germany adds.

France nods silently, mouth parted.

Romano huffs and leans back, face flushed, and exchanges a victorious look with Veneziano. For once, they managed to wipe that dirty smirk off France’s face.


End file.
